


The Queen and the Sealord

by TheSoliloquy



Series: some lies are love [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, queen!Sansa, sealord!Petyr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoliloquy/pseuds/TheSoliloquy
Summary: The Sealord of Braavos, Petyr Baelish, has come to King's Landing to treat with the Queen.They are not as subtle as they think.Note: Can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Series: some lies are love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856983
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The Queen and the Sealord

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the universe of 'some lies are love' but can be read as a standalone. Big fan of Sealord!Petyr. Working on another installment that this ties into, bigger this time, but it may be a while!
> 
> As ever, your feedback is fuel! Let me know what you think.

Hold on, hold on, I have to protest. Do you think I would choose to live without you?  
 **Euripedes, Orestes**

**ALYS the BAKER’S GIRL.**

The Braavosi!

The Braavosi are here!

Not that little Alys can see them.

Everyone and their mam lines the streets, from Flea Bottom to the Great Square, four deep at least, blacksmiths and bakers and paupers and servants and all of them so _gods-damned_ _tall_. It’s no surprise; King’s Landing’s been waiting for the Sealord of Braavos for months, but Alys can hardly leave the bakery even for just one afternoon.

Still, she’s sure as seven hells not going to miss this.

Alys slips through legs and beneath bellies, pushes her way through the mass of sweaty bodies. At least the musk of it all is masked nicely by the lemon trees growing in the cobbles. The last time foreigners had come she’d sat on Pa’s shoulders- but he’s gone now so she climbs the trees instead, pulls herself up the skinny branches until she can see the Queen’s Street.

There!

_Gods_.

The Braavosi are the most beautiful people Alys has ever seen.

A parade of animals leads the way, large and small, with names she knows and more she doesn’t. That there is a Zorse, she thinks, strange and striped and splendid. And behind it an _elephant_ , trunk low and wrinkled skin half-hidden by purple cloth, tassels swinging with each lumbering step.

After them glide the courtesans, dusky-skinned women drawn in open-top carriages, languid and beautiful against satin pillows. Ma says they’re paid to keep men company, an idea Alys doesn’t quite understand but, hells, what an easy way to earn coin- even if the boys in Flea Bottom _are_ a bit grubby.

The mummers distract her then.

They’re a sight to see, in a trundling theatre on wheels, gaudily costumed and bold, lyricising and bellowing at the crowd. A few jump from the wagon with gifts and Alys almost falls from the tree in her haste to drop down. She dives back into the crowd and with sharp elbows begins to wrestle her way to the front, little body squeezing through gaps-

-and stumbling straight into the path of a Zorse.

Alys yelps when strong hands grab her. In a split second she’s pulled back, lifted into the air, and comes face-to-face with a blue-haired Bravo, bright-eyed, grinning madly. She grins right back and laughs when he settles her on his shoulders. It’s a heady feeling, being part of the parade all of a sudden, and Alys grips his head as they jostle down the street, waving and cheering, surrounded by Bravos and mummers and peacocks.

“Daario!” A husky voice calls, “Who do you have there?”

Alys cranes around and there, atop a camel and draped in robes as dark as the night sky, is a silver-haired man.

The Sealord.

Alys gawks and gawks.

Daario, because it must be him whose shoulders she rides, calls back, “One of your Westerosi, come to join the parade!”

And the Sealord smiles a smile that lights his grey-green eyes and beckons them near. He’s older than she thought he’d be, regal and pale-skinned beside the Braavosi.

“Here, little one.” He leans down and presses something into her hand, “Keep this safe for me, will you?”

At her eager nod he chuckles, a deep and rich sound, and tweaks her nose, and then Daario lowers her from his shoulders and the moment her feet touch the ground Alys darts back into the crowd and out towards home.

Her Ma will say they should sell it, of course. So Alys tucks the coin away for safe keeping.

**LADY BRIENNE the LORD COMMANDER of the QUEENSGUARD.**

They’ve been at it for hours.

Or perhaps it only feels that way.

Her Queen’s marriage to the late King Quentyn had been blissfully silent, if monotonous. Even when the two had shared a bed there’d been no sound beyond the occasional creak, and come morning the Queen would emerge alert and unruffled. Their marriage was not one of passion nor one of affection; there was friendship, perhaps, but it was duty only that consummated the union.

It makes sense, then, Brienne supposes, for Queen Sansa to make the most of a skilled lover.

_Who listens to everything yet hears nothing? A Queensguard._

There is at least a pretence of conversation at first, the same formalities and discussions of trade and travel Queen Sansa had shared the day before with the Prince of Pentos, and the week before with the First Magister of Lys, and the month before with the Chiefs of Naath.

But the Sealord of Braavos is no stranger to the Queen.

Silence for a while.

And then her Queen’s sighs, and her Queen’s moans, and a single word.

_“Petyr…”_

As the noises build, the pants and the groans, the slap of flesh and the creak of wood, Brienne takes her mind elsewhere. Much planning is needed still for the week ahead: a city full of foreign dignitaries and revelries to distract every one of the Queensguard. And she had promised the Queen’s wards she would teach them to grapple. They won’t let her forget that…

A pot breaks with a shatter: an inkwell, she suspects. At his last visit they’d broken the desk itself, and at the sound of it Brienne had burst in to a most awkward scene.

It’s as she is suppressing this memory that Tyrion Lannister ambles whistling down the corridor.

It also happens to be as the Queen and Sealord’s activities are reaching a crescendo.

_“Oh gods, there, Petyr, yes, yes, yes-“_

Impeccable timing.

There is no need to warn him; she sees on his face the moment Tyrion hears their frantic lovemaking, before he turns quickly on his heel and hurries the other way.

Brienne makes a mental note to tell the Queen her Hand came calling.

Later.

**DONNEL the GARDENER.**

Donnel remembers Aerys’ reign, and Robert’s reign, and Joffrey’s, and Tommen’s and Cersei’s.

So if anyone asks, aye, he knows the importance of turning a blind eye, to be sure.

And if Donnel could keep close-lipped for half a dozen fools on the throne, he’ll sure as seven hells keep his mouth shut for this Queen. He likes this one a fair bit better than the rest. Queen Sansa is kind and stern, and the city doesn’t stink half as bad because of her, and above all she knows his value as a gardener.

And when his little Alys was sick, laid up with the pox, the Queen had sent the Grand Maester himself to tend to her.

Aye, has there ever been a ruler so gentle?

It surprises Donnel then, when his daily pruning is interrupted by the sound of her quarrelling with the Sealord of Braavos.

He has never seen her so furious. The sight of her red face is enough to send Donnel back into the shadows, even when the two scare his precious doves into flight.

Is the Sealord not an amicable man?

Donnel remembers Petyr Baelish from _before_ , back when the worst the realm had to fear were emptying coffers. He’d always been a funny one, slender and effeminate; truth be told, Donnel’s sure he’s one of _those_ men. One of those ones that prefer their own kind, like that noble Tyrell boy. Still, a witty man, Baelish had been, and kind enough to Donnel and his like. He’d come from lesser means, after all.

And Gods help the man, he’s holding his own in front of an angry woman.

No, an angry woman and a half-giant: Donnel spies the Lady Commander, Brienne, watching calmly from the side even as her Queen seethes. Lady Brienne does not flinch when Her Grace pushes hard at the Sealord’s chest, nor when the Queen reaches up and grips his jaw in her hand, and suddenly the two are nose to nose.

Far too close to be proper, in Donnel’s opinion.

But then Baelish speaks and the Queen’s hand falls.

And the Sealord leaves and she doesn’t follow.

But it’s rude to watch, Donnel thinks, and if the Queen crumples he doesn’t see it, and if Her Grace is weeping he doesn’t hear it, no, not at all.

He is only tending his lavender and minding his business.

**ARIANNE the PRINCESS of DORNE.**

“Hush now, little sister, do not lie to me!”

They are prudish in the North, certainly, and despite the years her good-sister is no exception. Perhaps it is because she is queen. Or perhaps, and it is more likely in Arianne’s learned opinion, whatever fire Sansa once had was dulled by a boring marriage.

Much as Arianne loved her late brother, which in truth was not as much as a sister should, she could never imagine Quentyn heating any woman’s loins.

Why, if she had been a man and King of Westeros, the Queen would have whelped a dozen children by now and all of King’s Landing would sing songs of their lovemaking.

Although… similar songs are already being sung.

“You have been watching him all evening.” Arianne drapes herself across Sansa’s lap and throws a glance over her shoulder at the Sealord, engrossed in conversation with his First Sword, “Won’t you dance with him? Ah, or you are waiting for a _different_ sort of dance, hmm?”

She has half a mind to _dance_ with him herself, this handsome Westerosi, silver-tongued and silver-haired. Age means naught to Arianne and men as wicked as Petyr Baelish oft make her wet to her knees.

“A Queen does not proposition men. Men proposition _her_.” Sansa sulks, but there is a glimmer in those blue eyes.

“Ack such old-fashioned ways, sister. Be quick! Before I take him myself.”

“And what of your husband?”

“He is welcome to join us.”

Sansa laughs, though it’s not so carefree a sound. They sip at wine and watch as Petyr Baelish sweeps little Lya Stark into his arms and takes her out onto the dance floor. He is most charming, this one. The Queen’s wards are very taken with him, Lya and the Greyjoy boy, even Arianne’s precious Loreza, a girl quick to anger and slow to trust.

“He has no children of his own?”

A ripple of sadness passes over Sansa’s face.

“Good.” Arianne declares, perching on the table and taking the woman’s hands in hers, “All the more attention for my Loreza to enjoy. You may keep her for all time if you wish. She is ever jealous of her brothers and gives me too much trouble.”

“As much trouble as you gave _your_ mother, I wager.”

“Sister, you wound me. I gave mine far more.”

Sansa squeezes her hands. “I hurt him. More than ever before.”

“Then apologise. Or else bed him until he forgets.”

“There is a long list of hurts, Arianne.”

“You think he cares so little for you that any of it will matter? You love him, don’t you? Even when you married my brother, you loved _him_.” She kisses her good-sister on the cheek and pulls her to her feet, “Hush, I know a thing or two of love. Go now. Send the little ones to me and ask him to dance. Bare those pale breasts if you must.”

And even if the good Queen Sansa scowls at this, feigns reluctance and disapproval, there is _want_ in her eyes that no pretence can hide.

**POPPY the HANDMAID.**

The Queen does not wish to be attended today, or so says the Lady Brienne as Poppy reaches Her Grace’s chambers.

But oh by the gods she had _so_ hoped for tales to tell the other girls!

Some scandal, perhaps, dirtied linen or misplaced smallclothes, _anything_. Poppy is nothing if not a busybody, and after what they’d heard of the Queen’s ball last night the other maids are depending on her.

But.

Queen Sansa does not wish to be attended today.

Poppy tries not to let the disappointment show, only courtesies with a chirp and makes to leave when there is the click of a door and the Queen herself peers out.

“Thank you, Brienne.” Her Grace smiles at Poppy and beckons her closer, “Poppy, isn’t it? I’m afraid I will be abed today, please ask that all my food is sent to my chambers. Double portions. I find myself rather hungry. Ah and my gown needs mending, could you see to it? I’ll just go and find it.”

If indeed it had been a late night, Queen Sansa’s face does not show it; beautiful and vibrant as ever, serene, with the same gentle steel as ever.

She disappears into her solar and leaves Poppy fidgeting at the open door, trying her best to lean in. If it weren’t for Lady Brienne she’d have a proper snoop. As it is there’s not much to see: the Queen keeps her rooms orderly, tidied closets, clean floors, neat papers. The bed curtains are drawn but Poppy would wager even the sheets are folded.

She learns otherwise.

A gust rushes in from the balcony and lifts the curtains with a flutter, and for no more than a moment Poppy sees the bed as clear as day.

There lies a man, sprawled on his stomach and sound asleep, pale-skinned and naked but for the sheet at the swell of his waist, smooth-skinned but for the ridges of his back, and- _gods- is that?_

But then the moment is gone and Poppy startles when the Queen returns.

“A simple fix, I should think, but best ask Barbrey. That woman works the most marvellous wonders.” Queen Sansa pauses when Poppy’s eyes flicker, unwittingly, back to the bed, curtains drifted shut, “Poppy?”

“Yes, Your Grace, as you wish!”

She thinks she has not been _too_ obvious, curtsying and bobbing as she is, even if the Queen’s fingers do linger on her wrist, even if there _is_ a knowing look in her eye.

Oh, the girls are going to _love_ this.

**TYRION the HAND of the QUEEN.**

Tyrion is glad to see the back of them, Braavosi ships falling into the horizon.

Curse his gods-damned memory: now he will never forget the sound of Littlefinger climaxing. It makes him shudder every now and then. And to think, Tyrion had once wished for nothing more than to draw those sweet sounds from his lady wife. If only she had let him…

That would have been a different future, not a happy one.

Better that things unfolded as they did.

At least he is Hand to a beloved Queen. She sighs beside him now, soft enough to hide from onlookers, heavy enough Tyrion sees the light dull within her eyes. Sometimes, when all is quiet and they are deep in their cups, Sansa will confide in him, will tell him of death and what comes after. Rarely does she speak of _him_.

_Was it difficult?_ Tyrion had asked once, _Dying and living again?_

_No,_ she had replied, _Not until I sent him away._

“Perhaps,” The Hand smiles at his Queen, “We should make this a regular occurrence?”

It''s been a long decade. Much has changed.

.


End file.
